


Bunker, Briefly.

by quadrotriticale



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Not Canon Compliant, POV Second Person, POV Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-04 20:45:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15155279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quadrotriticale/pseuds/quadrotriticale
Summary: Steve is injured after a mission.





	Bunker, Briefly.

**Author's Note:**

> hi hello good evening this is self indulgent as fuck and take place in the mcu that exists exclusively in my own mind in which steve makes an underground avengers that is literally under ground like they have bunkers and mutants are a thing that are affected by the accords and uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh thanos is fake

Sam steadies you, lets out an uneven breath. You're not sure how he's supporting your full body weight, but he is, and you're thankful. 

“Easy,” he says, wincing, “Steve, take it easy.” He all but drags you to a cot, sets you down as carefully as possible. Your entire body aches, your head swims, and the world seems like it’s listing to the side even though you aren’t moving. The medics won’t get to you for a while, and by then you may not need them. There’s people in worse shape than you, and you heal fairly quickly. The whirling fuzz in your head isn’t an unfamiliar sensation.

Sam more or less tears off his gear, dumps it rather unceremoniously on the floor and slumps in a plastic chair beside you. He’s drained, you can see it on his face, and you know he’s injured himself, but you also know he won’t be seen until everyone else has, until he’s sure you haven’t lost anyone else. You worry about him, he's more fragile than you and most of your friends, but you get it. He scrubs his face with his hand, blinks like he’s fighting sleep, and sighs.

Before you can say anything, he cuts you off. “I know what you’re gonna say, man. None of that, this wasn’t your fault.” When you try to protest, he gives you a look that shuts you up. ‘Not tonight,’ it says, and you don’t protest. Maybe it wasn't your fault, maybe the failure was collective, maybe it was a planning error or simply bad luck, but it feels like it should be your fault. It always does.

It’s very shortly after your head stops spinning enough for you to sit up that Bucky finds his way over, choosing to force his way onto the cot instead of sitting literally anywhere else. There isn’t room for the both of you, but you don’t protest, rest comfortably against him, half under and half on top of him, because it’s _Bucky_ and you weren’t sure what had happened to him in the fray. He seems alright if a little beaten up, and you’re grateful. You remember the first few times you did this in front of Sam, curling around each other and refusing to be separated for anything other than the utmost necessity, and you remember noting that he grew vaguely uncomfortable, but he doesn’t seem to think anything of it now. You guess he must be growing used to it.

When a medic finally arrives- a young kid, frazzled, her hair falling out of the bun you’d guess she tied it in hours ago- you try to wave her off. (Un)fortunately, Sam and Bucky both cut you off, and you guess it’s kind of typical that the only thing they ever really agree on is that you need to take care of yourself, and sometimes that means accepting help. 

(She tells you her name is Emily, and that she grew up in Harlem, when you start asking her questions while she patches you up. “Brooklyn,” you tell her, and the way her shoulders sag and her eyes light up tells you it was a good thing to say. Something about a piece of home, something about a piece of New York, something about assurances. If you had to guess you’d say she was one of those kids who keep coming in, the ones who tell you they just woke up one morning with abilities, the ones who’re too small and too scared and too green to have to be dealing with this. It makes you want to ring Tony’s neck, but you don’t show her that.)

She tends to what she can of you with a warm little light from her hands, helps Sam at your insistence, looks to Bucky before being gently waved off. You thank her and she nods, waves, and hurries off. You slump against Bucky, sigh quietly, and he tells you he knows what you mean. (The exchange is a little lost on Sam, and you know that, but he's got to be used to the two of you by now.)

Bucky helps you to your room at some point, Sam trailing behind until you bid him goodnight and he turns off to go to his. 

You sleep deeply, but you wouldn’t call it well. 

(It happens again next week, this time to Sam, who's so much more fragile than you or Bucky, who needs to spend a while recuperating before he's ready to get back into it. It keeps happening, and it keeps happening, and this time you lose people and you can’t always understand why you do this.)

(And then you’re reminded of the children, the 12 and 13 year olds you find huddled in the dark with too big eyes, with scales, with lights that glow in their palms, and then you remember that it isn’t about you, that what you’ve built is for them, and that they’re why you fight.)

(It makes you feel a little bit better.)


End file.
